Mistaken

by Jessie Lewis

  He had made no attempt to discover why she dismissed Amelia, grateful only that the woman was gone and more resolved than ever to conquer his feelings for Elizabeth.

  He lost Jane to Lord Vale, who whisked her off into a turn in the centre. Bingley watched her dance. The candlelight afforded her countenance, which was already glowing prettily from her exertions, a soft, delicate sheen. She truly was an astoundingly handsome woman.

  Vale spun past, delivering her back to him. Bingley took hold of her hand and smiled, earning himself a look of hopeful surprise.

  Was not this rectifiable? Given time to nurture his regard—away from the distraction of either Elizabeth or Amelia—had he not every reason to hope that his feelings for Jane would grow to surpass all other desires? He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. Perchance she might be ready to receive him this evening. Then they might begin their journey to felicity in earnest.

  He set off into the next round ahead of tempo, willing the set to end that he could escape the place and return home into the arms of his beautiful, serene, uncomplicated wife—away from the terrifying, fierce, and insuperable passion of her sister.

  ***

  Elizabeth grew giddy from Darcy’s affect upon her senses as they wheeled feverishly towards the end of the set. He drew her closer, held her tighter, and released her later with every glancing convergence. The feel of him so close behind, as he pursued her through the dance’s closing steps, set her heart to racing, emboldening her to stop two steps early and wait—heart thundering, eyes closed, and all anticipation for that moment he would, inevitably, capture her.

  They came together with too much force, toppling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and lust to enact a dance all their own, the tempo fierce and the steps urgent. They moved fervently, Darcy incandescent with desire. No other woman had ever roused in him such ferocious lust. Elizabeth was sublime, her skin flushed in the candlelight and exquisite gasps of pleasure on her lips as he loved her. He welcomed the familiar coil of tension when it began and increased his pace, pursuing his bliss. Elizabeth’s passion rose to meet his. Her hands tangled in his hair, and she bucked against him muttering incoherent half-formed words ’til, without warning, she cried his name, and Darcy was sent reeling violently into the rapturous denouement of the most exhilarating dance he had ever performed.

  He lay still, unmoving but for his heart thundering in his chest, and fought to catch his breath. Into the stunned hush came Elizabeth’s sultry, passion-drenched voice.

  “Fitzwilliam Darcy, had I known you could do that, I should have said yes the first time.”

  ***

  Saturday, 18 July 1812: London

  On the afternoon following the evening before, Jane sat in her parlour, her hands idle and her mind engaged in reflections answerable for the blush overspreading her cheeks. The evening before, she and Bingley had at last consummated their union, binding themselves eternally in body where she was certain their hearts must soon unite. Such reveries rendered her already somewhat discomposed—and therefore apt to become even more so—when none other than Lady Ashby came calling.

  Her ladyship blew into the room in an eddy of hauteur and installed herself ceremoniously upon the chaise longue.

  “I did not expect to see you so soon, Lady Ashby,” Jane began nervously.

  “Come now, did we not agree you would call me Philippa?”

  “Oh, yes. Forgive me.”

  “Never apologise, Jane; it is unbecoming.”

  A footman delivered some refreshments, and Jane proceeded to pour tea for her visitor, glad of some activity to steady her hands.

  Lady Ashby accepted her cup with a wide, close-lipped smile. “Now tell me, how did you enjoy my ball? Did you approve of the decoration? You seem the sort of woman to appreciate finery.”

  This began a discussion on all things refined and admirable, from Miss Christopherson’s exquisite performance at the pianoforte to the divine shade of Lady Frances’s gown.

  “You, too, were quite sublime, my dear,” her ladyship added, much to Jane’s delight. “I believe I must be allowed to detest you just a little for your looks. You were universally admired. And you acquitted yourself admirably given your recent elevation to your husband’s sphere. Everybody to whom I introduced you was well pleased. But then, there is nothing better, I find, than to have one’s expectations exceeded. It disposes one to be satisfied.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Such a shame your sister saw fit to prove correct all our prepossessions. In her every action there was something of which to be ashamed. One can hardly blame your husband for his enthralment, for what man’s interest would not be piqued by such a flagrant exhibition of feminine charms?”

  Jane gasped and coughed, and hot tea burnt the back of her nose. Throughout their intimacy the previous evening, Bingley had showered her with such assurances of his regard and promises for their future as made her forget, momentarily, Elizabeth’s claim on his affections. “Pardon?” she whispered.

  “Oh, I have an eye for these things, Jane. And believe me, your husband was not alone in being drawn in. It was precisely as you said: Mrs. Darcy teases and flirts at will with no adherence to the practices of the sphere into which she has imposed herself. That a few weak-minded individuals should fall prey to such a widely cast net is wholly unsurprising.”

  “Yes, I suppose…”

  “No matter. Your husband, indeed the whole of society, will soon tire of her when they realise she has naught to offer but coquetry and satire.”

  “They will?”

  “Indeed, it cannot be otherwise. One wonders when Mr. Darcy will tire of her…but in any case, your husband will certainly lose interest soon.” She leant forward and patted Jane’s hand. “Understand, my dear, that while men’s heads are easily turned by women’s charms, their hearts are governed by pride. They have a great need to feel respected. Your eminently more sensible marriage has allowed you to achieve that which your sister never will—the very ne plus ultra of your rightful sphere. Of course, a connection with me will recommend you further still. Mr. Bingley cannot long remain unmoved by such distinction.” She gave her hand a parting pat and leant back, smirking as she withdrew. “You observed, I presume, how his interest in her waned once you began dancing with the likes of Lord Vale?”

  “I had not—though, yes, I suppose it did.”

  “There, you see? It is perfectly within your power to harness his esteem if only you can learn to become the sort of wife of whom he can be proud.”

  Thus, the ember of hope that flickered so erratically in Jane’s heart was rekindled. “Yes, I believe I do see.”

  Lady Ashby smiled. “Good. So! Do not allow your sister’s selfish behaviour to distress you a moment longer. No good will come of a rift between the pair of you. Suffer her as best you can, and take comfort instead in our friendship. And the next time her manners or actions grieve you, bring your vexations to me. Mine will ever be a willing and sympathetic ear.”

  When the visit drew to an end a few minutes later and her new friend departed with the warmest of adieus, Jane felt vastly comforted to have secured the friendship of such a shrewd and obliging woman—and a good deal of satisfaction to have proved herself, on this occasion at least, better admired than her sister.

  ***

  “Have I called at an inconvenient time, Jane?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem determined to be displeased with me today.”

  Elizabeth had called at Grosvenor Street with the hope of exchanging tales of newly wedded bliss with her dearest sister but had been there for little more than five minutes before comprehending there would be no sharing of confidences this day. Jane was uncommonly ill-tempered, inclined to take offense at most everything and find fault with all the rest.

&nb
sp; “Forgive me, I am a little fatigued,” Jane replied. “Last night was…taxing.”

  “It was? I hope nobody was uncivil to you.”

  Jane’s cheeks pinked a little. “I believe it was unintentional.”

  “Then you were slighted by somebody?”

  Jane shrugged slightly. “I was merely ill-prepared for the want of consideration I was shown in some quarters.”

  This caught Elizabeth by surprise, though she was instantly angry with herself for being surprised. The nature of her acquaintance with Darcy had afforded her an invaluable understanding of his sphere and its inherent intolerances. Moreover, he had warned her what to expect at the ball since it was his family and his acquaintances to whom she was being introduced. Poor Jane had been given no such advantage. Even Mr. Bingley possessed only a passing acquaintance with the majority of Lady Ashby’s guests. Elizabeth was ashamed to acknowledge she had done naught to prepare her unsuspecting sister for the contempt of those whom she herself must now call family.

  “I beg you would forgive me, Jane. I was too engrossed in my own world to consider how you must have felt. It was selfish of me.”

  Her sister did not smile. “I shall not say you are wrong.”

  Elizabeth blinked away her surprise, for she supposed, having claimed the offence, she could hardly blame Jane for agreeing with it. “But did you manage to enjoy yourself at all? Not every person was uncivil, I hope.”

  “By no means. There were a number of very charming people there. I found Lady Ashby particularly agreeable.”

  “You did?” Elizabeth said with a little laugh, wondering not for the first time at Jane’s ability to form attachments to the most insincere of people.

  “Yes, Lizzy, I did! I see you think it diverting. And, of course, I must be the one at fault because nobody is as good a judge of character as you.”

  Though she continued to be taken aback by her sister’s ill-will, the barb served its purpose. She was duly humbled. “I beg your pardon. You are quite right. Lady Ashby showed me no great courtesy, but I do not doubt you were able to see some good in her that I was not.”

  “Perhaps it was because I was more respectful of her that she showed me more courtesy than she did you.”

  “Do you accuse me of being disrespectful to her?”

  “Not by design, I am sure, but your teasing ran as unchecked last night as ever it did in Hertfordshire, and such irreverence could never be considered respectful. Your new family will never like you if you make no effort to please them.”

  “How fortunate, then, that I do not require their approbation.”

  “Do you not? You are not concerned that Mr. Darcy will grow weary of the schism you have caused—that he will tire of you?”

  “Are you worried Mr. Bingley will tire of you?” Elizabeth threw back, incredulous at the very suggestion.

  A stony veil fell across Jane’s countenance. Too late, Elizabeth realised the imprudence of using Mr. Bingley’s constancy as a case in point. “Forgive me, I meant not to allude to past troubles, only to demonstrate my faith in Darcy’s affections. I have every reason to believe his esteem will endure regardless of his family’s opinion of me.”

  Jane unfurled from her rigid pose and turned away to take up her embroidery. “I am sure you are right.”

  An oppressive silence fell over them. Jane, her expression pinched, worked doggedly on her stitches. Elizabeth sat motionless and wretched, wondering whether their friendship might be forever changed. They had been sheltered, she recognised, growing up at Longbourn. Harmony and contentment had been easy to nurture when the greatest tribulations they faced were Mrs. Bennet’s nerves and the occasional uncertainty of which gown ought to be worn to this or that dance. Exposed for but a few months to the influences of the wider world, they had both been irrevocably altered and seemed unable to rediscover an equal footing.

  “Jane,” she said softly, “we are about to be separated for an indeterminate length of time. Let us not part on bad terms. Shall we not speak of something else? What of your time left in London? What are your plans?”

  They talked of happier things after that, and Jane even showed Elizabeth the house. The visit was too overshadowed by their quarrel for there to be hope of a complete recovery, however, and they parted soon after. Elizabeth spent the remainder of the day in a fog of indignant disappointment, unable to fathom how the argument had come about. Not until many hours later did she feel calm enough to relay the exchange to Darcy.

  They lay entwined in the dimly lit cocoon of his bedchamber. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was curled into Elizabeth’s favourite half-smile, and he held her tightly to his side. The arrangement made her wish to forget the outside world—but she could not.

  “I called on Jane this afternoon,” she said quietly.

  “Was she well?”

  “Yes, only…” She sighed deeply. “We quarrelled.”

  He looked down at her. “About what?”

  “Everything! There was little I said that did not seem to displease her in some way.” She rolled onto her back and looked up into the darkness of the canopy. “She apparently found the ball quite trying. I believe she felt a little out of her depth.”

  “Why should that make her angry with you?”

  “Because I did not notice or do anything to alleviate it.”

  “It is not your responsibility to play nursemaid to your sister, Elizabeth.”

  “No, but it would have taken but a moment to warn her that she might encounter some disdain.”

  “Was she openly disdained? I must say I saw nothing of it.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I know not. She said only that she disliked the want of consideration some people showed her.”

  “Perhaps she was jealous of your greater notoriety.”

  His voice dripped with sarcasm, but Elizabeth did not blame him. Though she had been tolerably well received at the ball, Lady Catherine’s industrious calumny and the general prejudice of Darcy’s set had ensured that hers was a conspicuous and somewhat perilous entrance into society. Jane’s presence had been of comparatively little interest to anyone. Had her complaint been the lacklustre nature of her own reception? Elizabeth chafed at the notion. If Jane begrudged her greater share of attention, she was most welcome to it!

  Darcy pulled her back against him and placed a gentle kiss atop her head. “I have offended you. Forgive me.”

  “No, not at all. She was certainly severe on me.” She wrapped her arm about him and nestled closer. After a moment’s consideration, she enquired, “Was I uncivil to Lady Ashby?”

  “Indeed not! Quite the reverse. Why?”

  “Jane thought I was.”

  He made no response though he adjusted his shoulders restlessly. His silent agitation spoke volumes.

  “Pray, be not angry with her. I believe—I hope—it was only concern that made her speak thus. She is anxious I should not be disliked by my new family.” She thought it unwise to add that Jane feared for the longevity of his affections in the face of any prolonged antagonism.

  He gave a sardonic huff. “I should not like it if my sister married and suffered the same disdain from her new family as you have suffered from mine, but if she did, I should not blame her.”

  Elizabeth raised herself onto her elbow and looked down at him. “I can tolerate your family’s disdain with perfect indifference, but I am less willing to see them despise you because they cannot like me. Have no fear that I mean to turn into Mr. Collins and fawn and toady after all your relations, but clearly, I cannot remain obstinately indifferent forever. I must make some effort.” She kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose. “And you never know—in ten or twenty years, I might even persuade a few of them to like me.”

  He lifted her hand from where it lay on his chest and kissed her fin
gers. “Lady Catherine already likes you. It is why she despises you so violently. It is exceedingly inconvenient to her that she should esteem the person responsible for ruining all her plans. And I wish you would not waste a moment more of your time on my cousin’s ridiculous wife. We can very well live without Lady Ashby’s good opinion.”

  Elizabeth let out a long sigh. “Both our families seem determined to make us pay for our happiness. How long ere we leave? I would go home!”

  In answer, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her onto her back, gazing at her fiercely with eyes cast jet-black by shadows—or fervour, she knew not which.

  “God, I love you, woman.” Then he stretched over her to the nightstand and snubbed out the candle, surrendering them to the intimate secrets of the darkness.

  ***

  Wednesday, 22 July 1812: London

  It took Bingley a moment to realise Godfrey did not mean to show him into Darcy’s study. He almost tripped over his own feet as he trotted to catch up.

  “Mr. Darcy is not at his desk?” Darcy always passed the hours before breakfast attending to business in his study.

  “No, sir. He and Mrs. Darcy will receive you in the morning room.”

  Bingley groaned. In adherence with his resolve to overcome his fascination, he had determined to avoid Elizabeth completely until they all removed from Town and, until now, had been successful. He had evaded calls, committed Jane and himself to engagements that conflicted with any to which the Darcys had invited them, and generally exhausted himself keeping far busier than he usually preferred in order that he could truthfully claim to have been too busy to see either of them.

  The Darcys were leaving for Pemberley on the morrow, however, and he had not wished to insult his friend by not even saying goodbye. Persuaded by his confidence in Darcy’s unswerving routine and the perfectly reasonable assumption that Elizabeth would rise as late as the women in his own household, he had elected to call at an hour scarcely past dawn so they would be assured of their privacy. Yet, here was Darcy, dallying in the morning room. With his wife.